


She loves you, yeah yeah yeah!

by quitehamish



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Bisexual Female Character, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Femlock, Gender or Sex Swap, Lesbian Character, Recreational Drug Use, Teenlock, Trans Female Character, minimal Viclock, trans character appears in next chapter, use of hallucinogenics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 06:33:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3109637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quitehamish/pseuds/quitehamish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s 1969 and Joan Watson is crossing the pond to dive headfirst into the American Flower Power movement. She’s down for the trip of a lifetime, but she doesn't anticipate meeting Sherlock Holmes along the way. </p><p>(It’s hippie femlock: groovy babez dropping acid, sleeping under the stars, fallin in love.)</p><p>*Note as of 7/23/16: I may write another part of this at some point but for now I'm working on other things :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	She loves you, yeah yeah yeah!

**Author's Note:**

> Please forgive all of the Americanisms. I understand exactly 0% of the British education system. In any case, schooling doesn't matter. Queer fictional girls matter.

ooo

Joan turns nineteen today and she has never seen this many people in her entire life.

Standing at the top of the world, she sees green rolling hill for miles. The valley lying below them, and presumably the ones beyond: all pulsing with shifting webs of people, entering and leaving tents, dancing, singing, selling, tripping.

Fields full of people flying, feet still touching the ground, and the idea is so delightful, she laughs and laughs.

ooo

Harry lasts less than ten minutes once they've descended into the swaying, smokey valley. The first time Joan glances away and then back, she has acquired a beer and is twisting the cap off. She ignores Joan's tired gaze in a practiced way and directs her attention instead to the stage, where long-haired men and women in flared trousers are lugging around amplifiers. A girl around Joan's age is dressed head to toe in fringe and dangling her legs off the stage, giggling uncontrollably as a gaggle of men on their knees try to catch her toes.

"Harry, c'mon. this isn't the scene." Not that every soul surrounding isn't under some sort of influence, but Joan doubts a belligerently drunk Harry would mesh with the hundreds of sensitive, psychadelic trips occuring in the same time and place.

Her sister is defensive by default. "If they didn't want people to drink, they wouldn't sell it, Joanie." Joan wants to point out that she doesn’t see any vendors and Harry probably bought the beer off a bloke with a backpack, but her sister is rolling her eyes before she even opens her mouth. "Besides, you hardly spend more time sober than me. You're on an awfully high horse for a munchkin." The diminutive which in childhood was familiar is derisive now.

"It's not the what, Harriet, it's the why," Joan snaps, pulling herself up to full height. She doesn’t care to try and rein in her tongue. "I do drugs because I want to think more. You drink because you wish you could think less. It’s pathetic.”

Harry's mouth twists bitterly and she stares hard at fringe girl, who is still laughing, and then wiping away tears as the strangers caress her feet from where they kneel in the dirt. "I love this band," Harry chokes out the lie, disappearing into the crowd with a "See you at home,” and Joan is sorry, sorry for bringing Harry here, sorry for coming to America, sorry for speaking the truth.

ooo

Joan doesn't recognize the man yelling her full name--mainly because he is blowing noggin-sized bubbles from a massive wand while covered in pink goop and feathers, in what appears to be a statement on either colonial-era mob violence or the meat processing industry. He continues to shout “Joan! Joan Watson!” (hilariously, since she's a few feet away and staring him directly in the eyes) until she sees past the pudding-poultry combo.

"Mike." She smiles.

"Joaniiiieeee!” The crowd surrounding his bubble spectacle begins drifting away. "Back for another semester abroad, myyyy little crumpet?"

Joan lets the terrible nickname go because the man is clearly out of his mind on hallucinogens. Or at least on his way out. "Erm--abroad, yes. Semester... maybe. Harry and I are concentrating on saving money right now." She refrains from clenching her fists where they dangle by her sides but embarrassment tinges her cheeks pink. After four months overseas and a slow summer back in England, Mr. and Mrs. Watson had been less than receptive of their plan to return to America sans enrollment in a legitimate scholarly program.

"Okay, okay, far out, but I thought you were all... nursey and such, am I right?"

Joan grimaces. "Doctor. Not nurse. I want to, don't get me wrong. It's just... complicated. Expensive.”

Mike pats her shoulder with his less sticky hand, which is still fairly sticky. It could be the pink stuff or soap from his bubbles. "Don't sweat it, Joanie baby. Debt doesn't carry over... Into our next lives,” he adds when Joan stares, confused. She sees that she has limited communication time left before Mike Stamford truly makes a departure.

"Listen, mate, since I'm back now--do you know where I could get a tab around here?" Joan's heart flutters like it's her first time again, all shy voices and underhanded money and breathless excitement. A couple of quid for a whole new beautiful world.

He looks at Joan incredulous, like she can read all of his secrets. "You know you're the second person to ask me that in the last hour?”

"Yeah, it's hippie paradise here and you're blowing bubbles dressed like a slime-bird. Can you point for me which way?" The anxiety that comes from talking about school is slinking its way out of her body and is replaced by gentle joy. It's the contact high from grinning Mike, or the first opening chords from a guitar onstage, or both.

"Oh, Joanie. I can do more than point!" Mike is off and Joan runs after, peals of giggles hanging behind in the air with bubbles.

ooo

“Woah. This is trippy.”

Joan has heard Mike say exactly that at least twenty times during their journey, a journey which in any other situation should have lasted three or four minutes but instead took twenty. Mostly because Mike exchanged polite pleasantries with every flower they met along the way.

So when they finally climb out of the valley, over the next hill, down once more, and stop in front of one of the plainer tents they’ve seen so far, Joan doesn’t see what’s so trippy about it. There is a woman sitting crosslegged on the ground in front of them, sheet of acid in her hands, and from her stems a small congregation. Most of them ignore Mike’s loud proclamation, but the woman’s gaze flies up sharply, quickly passing over Mike and onto Joan, pinning her where she stands with eyes like blue London sky breaking through fog. It’s 90 degrees outside and everyone is sweating but this pale, dark-haired woman looks flawlessly put together and cold as ice. Her over-sized peasant top hints at her waif-like frame, the hem falling just to her upper thighs; long, pale legs leading uninterrupted to bare feet in the grass. When Joan’s eyes make their way back up to creamy, arched neck, black shock of short curls, and oceanic eyes, the woman is smirking.

Joan doesn’t look away as Mike explains, “Joan Watson, this is Sherlock Holmes. I brought Sherlock here to buy acid... Now Sherlock is selling acid.” This sends him into peals of laughter and he is lost to them.

The woman named Sherlock Holmes huffs a laugh at Stamford but her wild eyes are still piercing through Joan. “The first girl got bored and I took over,” then without pause, “Bedfordshire or London?”

It’s not how Americans usually ask “Where are you from?” but Joan opens her mouth to answer when she remembers she hasn’t even spoken yet. “Oh. Er, London. Mike’s mentioned me then?”

“He hasn’t,” Sherlock says primly, and pats the ground next to her, returning to business as the people in line begin to display their collective impatience.

Joan pops a squat and presses on. “But you knew I was from England.” She watches Sherlock’s milk-white hands deftly rip through perforated lines and trade tiny squares for folded bills.

“Yes, and I know that this isn’t your first time to the States, nor is it your first time buying acid. Your parents disapprove of your trip--both kinds, actually. Also your sister is a drunk.”

Joan stares at Sherlock’s profile in disbelief. Aside from that initial glance, she doesn’t seem intrigued by John in particular, suggesting she’s not actually a stalker. “How... could you possibly know all of that?”

Sherlock rips off one last tab and the line is through, leaving just them. She faces Joan and her pupils are blown so large they seem to be eclipsing her irises. “Your shirt, first of all--UK release only, printed before they crossed the pool so either you’re a hardcore dedicated fan with tons of cash to spend on original memorabilia or you were there when it all began. Your haircut and trousers suggest the latter--sorry.” Joan waves a careless hand, wide-eyed and hanging on every word. “You’ve obviously spent some time in America because your accent has a bit of New York in it but the bags under your eyes and that red patch on your shoulder suggest jet lag and carrying a duffel through an airport, so you were here, left, and have recently returned. As for your sister, she passed through here before you came. She’s pretty wasted. You have the same nose.”

This is all very impressive but clearly winds Sherlock, who falls silent. After a moment, Joan breaks out into giggles. Sherlock, who is looking more transported away by the minute, laughs with her in relief.

“People usually don’t laugh. Wow. Oh my god, your laugh--” and she leans in, clutching at the air in front of Joan’s mouth, falling off balance and toppling into Joan’s lap.

“Hey, hey,” Joan wraps Sherlock’s trembling hands in her own small ones and helps her sit upright. In the past minute, Sherlock has traveled from Earth’s surface to the stratosphere, staring at Joan with watery eyes that are seeing more than is there. Joan has never seen anyone fall into a trip this quickly. “What did you take?” Sherlock looks overwhelmed so Joan keeps their hands clasped tight. “It’s okay, just tell me what you took so I can help you.”

“N-nothing, I didn’t,” Sherlock breathes, but Joan is looking at their hands. Then it clicks.

“Oh Christ! How many tabs of acid did you hand out with your bare hands?” She pulls her hands away from Sherlock’s and reaches for the bottle of water in her bag. “Didn’t the other girl think to give you some gloves?” Joan is angrier than she’s ever been and she’s never even met this stranger.

“That might’ve been why she was laughing, now that I think about it.” Sherlock is still and staring as Joan rinses her fingertips off. It’s a futile effort.

“Some friend, right?” Joan’s jaw clenches but she makes an effort to keep her voice light and positive as she dries Sherlock’s hands with the bottom of her shirt. She isn’t keen on sending her brand new acquaintance into a bad trip.

Sherlock doesn’t even seem bothered by basically being drugged. “Victoria and I aren’t friends,” she sighs, laying back onto the grass. She blinks rapidly up at the Sun, lips parting in a silent “oh,” then flips over and starts to army crawl into the tent. “We fuck,” then gestures back at a red-faced, frozen Joan to follow her. The flap falls shut after her backside and she disappears.

A moment or two to collect herself, and Joan crawls after her: down, down the rabbit hole.

ooo

Sherlock sat outside the tent for half an hour and passed out around 30 tabs. The Sun was beating down and her hands were sweaty and there is no way to tell how much she absorbed... but it’s a lot.

At first, she brushes off Joan’s attempts to coddle her--she and Lucy dance regularly, often for free, thanks to Victoria--but the visuals around her climb and climb in intensity until they far succeed anything she has ever experienced. Joan is talking out loud while she gathers all of the pillows in the tent and piles up a makeshift fort for them, but every sound that enters the air is coalescing into one massive symphony and she can’t tell whether she’s hearing voices or violins.

“....ock? Sherlock? You’re shaking.” Joan’s face emerges from the thick web of patterns closing in on her, her words a triumphant trumpet solo spilling out onto the staff paper in Sherlock’s mind, from piano to forte. Her hair looks like spun silk and her mouth looks like a berry. She puts her hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and squeezes, so Sherlock leans forward to taste what her lips sound like.

Joan easily ducks the clumsy pass, and folds her new friend into an embrace instead, chuckling. Sherlock feels stung for a moment, but Joan’s hand weaves its way into her curls and her low, humming laugh is kind, not cruel.

“Just breathe through it. Don’t try to block it out. Let it be and it’ll settle down soon,” Joan’s reassuring words pour out of her mouth like smoke. They wind their way through the air and into Sherlock’s ear, fogging up her brain and tripping up her tongue.

Joan, still clutching Sherlock to her chest, scootches them backwards, her shorts legs bracketing Sherlock’s own twig-like ones, guiding them towards the pile of pillows. Sherlock lets herself be steered, not looking away from the swirls and nebulae she sees in Joan’s eyes. Their awkward shuffling journey is short, and Joan lays Sherlock down on the fluffy pile, sitting back cross-legged to her side. Sherlock’s hands flutter briefly, panicky, and Joan reaches out to grasp them with her own.

“Tell me what you see.”

“Don’t let go of my hands again.”

“I won’t.”

Her hands clutch Joan’s tightly, knuckles turning white. “I’ll float away.”

“I won’t let you float away. Promise. Tell me what you see.”

So Sherlock paints for Joan the geometric patterns in the air, the prisms that shimmer in Joan’s skin wherever it catches the light filtering through the tent’s peak. She does her best to deconstruct the music around her, humming each line as voices and background noise translate to melodies in her head, and when it moves too fast and her words fail her, she gestures to the air before her helplessly. Joan rubs her thumb along the back of Sherlock’s hand in these moments, says “I know,” and “It must be so beautiful.”

An hour or so of Joan’s quiet company carries Sherlock through the knock-you-on-your-ass, transform-your-entire-world segment of her trip. The ceaseless tides of hallucinations start to lessen in power and come in less violent barrages. Soon Sherlock is on her feet again, still staring about herself in awe but more or less mobile with help from a patient Joan, who leads them slowly out of the tent.

Outside is a wonderland. The sun is out in full force and everyone around her is laughing, dancing. Every single breath she takes floods in and out like a full-body climax and she can’t imagine being sad or bored or lonely, not ever again.

She lets Joan tug her away from the tent, over the hill, through pulsing crowds, past impossible wonders... and towards the stage where the first opening guitar licks announce a new band onstage. The crowd amassed in front of the stage is a solid mass of writhing bodies, and they stop to grin at each other just on the edge.

“Could be dangerous.” Joan’s straight, silvery-blonde hair is sticking to her face and shoulders with sweat but she looks gorgeous anyway, smiling madly at Sherlock.

“What? Trance rock?” Sherlock smiles madly back.

“No. Dancing with me.” Joan grabs Sherlock’s wrist and pulls her along into the crowd. She stops when they are close enough to feel the gusts of sound from the stage rushing over their heads like physical wind. Joan allows the pulsing bodies around them to push her closer to Sherlock, until she can wrap an arm around her waist. Sherlock looms over her but Joan insinuates a thigh between Sherlock’s legs and tucks a hand in the small of her back. She’s close enough to see goose bumps erupt along Sherlock’s neck in response to their bare legs brushing.

People around them jump up and down to the lyrics but Joan and Sherlock sway together, controlled, eyes never parting. The band plays song after song as they drift imperceptibly closer together, their shared existence separate from the surrounding crowd. Soon they are sharing breath and the top of Joan’s muscled thigh grazes Sherlock maddeningly through the hem of her short dress.

Joan smirks confidently, eyes on Sherlock’s lips. “Are you feeling a little better? More like yourself?”

Sherlock has to tear her eyes away from Joan’s face to check. Colors are still behaving like swirling, low-lying clouds and laughter still sounds like bells but she remembers who she is and where she is and how she came to be pressed up against Joan and her insistent thigh that is threatening to drag her dress up and bare her to everyone. The idea is tittillating, more than it should be.

Sherlock’s eyes fall shut and she forgets to answer Joan, instead wrapping her arms tighter around Joan’s neck and chasing the feeling of hot breath against her cheek. A group of background singers onstage croon, “Would you believe in a love at first sight?” and the lead singer growls back, “Yeah, I’m certain that it happens all the time.” The air between their mouths crackles with electricity and their dancing becomes more like a slow, intense writhe.

“Are you still tripping, Sherlock?” Joan whispers heatedly, and tilts Sherlock’s jaw with her fingers--just as the roiling energy in the air reaches its climax. The heavens open up and a massive clap of thunder cuts the sound from the stage just as the rain reaches their heads. A few scream, some (mostly the members of the band) curse, most run for shelter in their tents or cars.

Sherlock and Joan leap a few feet apart, the tension between them snapping like a twig, then laugh uproariously as they are drenched where they stand.

“Come on,” Sherlock weaves her pinky finger around Joan’s with a playful smirk. “It doesn’t rain in the backseat of my car.”

ooo

They stop back at the tent to grab pillows, blankets, and Sherlock’s pack, but outside the flap paces a furious stranger. A Nordic beauty, she’s a match for Sherlock in height and frame, but her professional blonde bob and business casual clothes cut a strong comparison to Sherlock’s hippie aesthetic. When she catches sight of Sherlock, her face turns a shocking shade of red.

“Oh. Look who it is,” she bites out, green eyes quivering. “It’s the certified genius who left our tent sitting open all day.” Joan narrow her eyes at the way this woman peers down her thin, upturned nose at Sherlock, who stops a few feet short, body tense. Joan bumps into her and has to take a step back.

“I’ve been gone for a couple of hours. If that,” Sherlock weakly objects. Joan decides that she prefers hearing her voice high with euphoria rather than defensive and thin.

“A few hours, fine,” the woman laughs unkindly. “Just enough time for some deadhead to carry a sheet of acid and a purse full of cash out of our wide-open tent while you dance with your new friend. Did you even sell anything while I was gone, or did you just walk about and hand out freebies?”

Sherlock shakes her head, frowning, unable to gather the words to defend herself. “No--Vic--I sold the sheet and--I remember leaving the tent and--“

Vic. Joan remembers the name Victoria, remembers Sherlock’s heart-shaped lips forming the words, ‘We fuck.’ Victoria gapes at Sherlock, astonished. “And you’re high right now. Seriously? Congratulations, Sherlock, you’re the human equivalent of a drain. It’s really a pleasure to flush all of my fucking money down--“

With that, Joan reaches the end of her very limited patience. “It’s your fault she’s tripping balls, anyway--what sort of girlfriend forgets to mention gloves?” She angles her body so she is between the two arguing women. Protecting Sherlock is an instinct, not a choice.

To her surprise, Victoria backs off immediately, raising her hands in a gesture of defeat. She looks over Joan’s shoulder to speak directly at Sherlock. “You have zero common sense and I lose money because of it. Again. It’s not quirky, Sherlock; it’s not cute. You make my life hell.” She grabs a tote from just inside the tent and slings it over her shoulder. “And I’m not her girlfriend,” directed at Joan. She stalks off, leaving behind a quiet Sherlock and a pissed-off Joan.

After a few deep breaths, the kind her therapist back in England helps her count out, Joan turns to Sherlock, who is staring dejectedly after Victoria, rain flattening her dark bangs to her forehead. “Some friend,” Joan huffs for the second time that day. She brightens up with some effort and nudges Sherlock’s shoulder. “Hey. Forget her. Let’s get somewhere dry.”

Sherlock’s eyes are self-conscious and her smile miniscule, but she shrugs on her cloth backpack. They each bear an armful of pillows and folded blankets as Sherlock leads the way to her car.

ooo

Sherlock must be five foot ten and despite her eyes threatening to roll back into her head permanently, Joan can not stop laughing at the sight of her curled up in the back seat of her tiny Volkswagon beetle--looking like a wet, lanky cat, drowning in a sea of pillows and blankets.

Joan hops into the car quickly, toeing off her muddy shoes before shutting the door. Off come her soaked denim shorts, and they whiz past Sherlock’s blushing face on their way to the front seat, leaving Joan in her cotton tee and a plain pair of red pants. She scoots and situates herself so that her legs are under the blankets. Both women quell shivers when John’s lightly furry leg brushes against Sherlock’s smooth thigh.

The storm rages outside in the parking field. Most have driven off, but some linger in their cars, chatting, smoking. Sherlock and Joan had, without saying anything, gotten into Sherlock’s car, driven to a more remote parking space, parked and climbed into the back. Sherlock’s car has a tape deck and Paul McCartney is singing “Michelle” to the rain. They’ve rolled a joint and pass it back and forth leisurely.

Sherlock is sighing and rubbing her cheek against a soft knit blanket. Joan wiggles her toes against Sherlock’s lumpy knee and Sherlock kicks without opening her eyes, lips curling at the edges. “Your toes are freezing.”

Joan flexes her toes again just to see Sherlock shiver. “How’s that blanket treating you?” she asks. “On a scale of relatively well to incredible trippy.” She smiles when Sherlock opens her eyes and accepts the joint. Despite ragged, wet curls, Sherlock looks temptingly beautiful. Her white peasant dress, rendered slightly sheer by the rain, hangs off her sharp shoulders and clings to her small breasts. It doesn’t surprise Joan that Sherlock isn’t wearing a bra. She has to wet her lips and force her eyes upwards. Smoke drifts out of her ridiculous mouth in heart shapes.

“I have an appreciation for this blanket apropos to someone who’s just come in from the rain... Almost all the visuals have faded away. But this trip has been surprisingly,” Sherlock swallows audibly and her chest heaves. “Physical.”

Joan’s eyelids droop of their own accord. She declines the joint because her mouth is already dry. “It’s still there? The... physical high?” Sherlock cranks down the window before taking the last hit and tossing the roach. She nods in response to Joan, eyes flashing, and beckons her closer. Joan, lightheaded, leans in and opens her mouth, letting Sherlock breathe hot smoke into her mouth, their lips a moment away from touching.

The newly opened window lets in the sound of the rain, and when thunder claps above them, Sherlock starts, pressing against Joan. “P-physical,” she stutters out again, blushing, overly innocent, arching her back, and the last straw for Joan is the feeling of Sherlock’s breasts pushed against her own, soaking her shirt through. She tucks her hands underneath Sherlock’s thighs and pulls her sharply downwards, straddling the stomach of the suddenly horizontal woman beneath her. Sherlock’s eye glitter as though everything has gone exactly according to plan, and Joan feels an unlikely growl in her throat.

“You tease. You’re not tripping as hard as you’d like me to believe, are you?”

Sherlock grins wolfishly up at her. “I honestly was. I’ve never done more than a tab or two at a time. But now...” She pulls Joan in with her thighs, hands climbing up Joan’s back and finding purchase in her long, blonde mane. “I am pleasantly high and I’m feeling very lucky to have met you and you look beautiful on top of me and it’s time for you to kiss me now.”

Sherlock tries to pull Joan’s head down but Joan laughs lowly and grabs her wrists, easily regaining leverage and pinning her hands up by her head. She kicks away the blankets and shimmies down the seat until her knees are on either side of Sherlock’s slim thighs; then she slowly lowers her top half until her chest and stomach are pressed to Sherlock’s, arse raised in the air behind her. Totally in control, she noses along Sherlock’s neck and jaw, barely brushing her lips everywhere but where Sherlock wants her.

Sherlock is full-body writhing, cat-like, and John responds by pressing her harder into the back seat. “Teases don’t get kisses,” she says, lips whispering against the shell Sherlock’s ear. “Teases should always be prepared to get back what they give.”

A sharp nip to the soft spot under her jaw convinces Sherlock to give up trying to regain the upper hand. She laughs brokenly, voice thick with want. “God, I knew you were going to be fun,” and then Joan doesn’t feel like teasing anymore.

Lightning strikes and thunder claps as she presses together their laughing mouths.

**Author's Note:**

> So there we have the first part! Expect two or three more... at some point... maybe
> 
> Come play on tumblr: aborteddeclarationoflove.tumblr.com


End file.
